Chapter 56 : One Flower (1)

Independent films were a dying breed in Korea. In the early 2000s, there had been a few breakout successes, catapulting indie directors into the mainstream. But now, the market was saturated with amateur projects, driving audiences away. Distribution companies turned their backs, and independent films became a platform for personal artistic expression, a graveyard for unfulfilled dreams.

So, who watched these films? A few die-hard fans, some industry insiders… and Yeon Junho. He was both a fan and a director, though his expertise lay in dramas, not films.

Junho, dressed casually in a worn baseball cap and comfortable clothes, settled into his seat. Kim Dohyung sat beside him, his arms laden with caramel popcorn and cola.

“Not a big crowd, right?” Junho commented, looking around the sparsely populated theater.
“Your formal speech is… unsettling, Dohyung. Just… talk normally.”
“This is normal for me. Here, have some popcorn.”

Junho accepted the snacks, frowning at the sheer quantity of popcorn.

“Was all this really necessary? We’re just watching a movie.”

Dohyung, already munching on the popcorn, replied,

“This is why I go to the movies.”

Watching movies and eating popcorn. It was one of life’s simple pleasures. And since this was his own film, he had splurged on the caramel popcorn.

“Wow, this place is empty.”
“It’s not bad, for an indie film. Hankyul’s name probably drew a few extra people.”

The theater, with only a dozen or so seats occupied, looked deserted. Junho frowned.

“Why are you even making an independent film? This isn’t your style.”
“There were… people I wanted to work with. I needed this project.”
“Did you get them?”
“One out of two. A missed opportunity.”

Dohyung’s voice was laced with genuine regret. Junho was surprised; Dohyung wasn’t usually one to dwell on the past.

“That’s unusual. I thought you always got what you wanted.”
“She rejected CEO Lee’s offer too.”
“She turned down CEO Lee? She must be something special.”

Dohyung smirked.

“You’ll see.”

The theater lights dimmed, and the film began. Junho felt a flicker of anticipation. He had known Dohyung for years, and he rarely recommended his own films, only mentioning them when he was particularly proud of a project.

But this time, he had actively invited Junho to watch it. And it was an independent film, no less. Dohyung’s unusual enthusiasm piqued Junho’s interest.

A melancholic melody, played on string instruments, filled the theater as the film began. The opening scene was jarring, the sound and the visuals slightly off-sync, creating a sense of unease. Junho recognized it as a deliberate directorial choice, a way to draw the audience in.

He exhaled softly. It was a curse, being a director, unable to fully immerse himself in a film, his mind constantly analyzing, dissecting. But it also allowed him to appreciate the film from different perspectives.

Three things impressed him:

Kim Dohyung’s meticulous direction,
the writer’s unique vision,
and the unsettling atmosphere created by the actress playing Seol.

He realized that the “missed opportunity” Dohyung had mentioned was either the writer or the actress.

The film ended, the girl’s haunting humming lingering in the air. Junho rubbed his arms, goosebumps rising on his skin.

It was…disturbing.

He sat in silence for a long moment, then turned to Dohyung.

“Do you have that actress’s contact information?”
“Of course. Why?”
“I’m interested. I’ve been looking for an actor who can… convey that kind of… coldness.”

Casting decisions weren’t usually a drama director’s prerogative, but he still had time before auditions began.

Kang Haerin and Hansongi sat in the drama club office, the atmosphere tense.

“I’m quitting the drama club.”

Hansongi’s tone was casual, but her words carried weight. Haerin looked at her, startled.

“Wh… What?”
“I’m a third-year now. I need to focus on my studies.”
“Suddenly? But you want to be an actor.”
“I’ve given it some thought.”
“Then… explain. Why the change of heart?”
“My dreams and… reality… they don’t align. I’m almost an adult now. It’s time to be… realistic.”

If Hansongi had been truly at peace with her decision, Haerin would have accepted it. But her hands, fidgeting nervously in her lap, betrayed her true feelings. Hansongi swallowed.

“I told you… about not being able to see the stars… Your words… they helped, back then.”

She clasped her hands together, as if trying to hold herself together.

“So I… I tried… really hard. But… some things… you just can’t achieve… no matter how hard you try.”

She had worked tirelessly, trying to bridge the gap between herself and Lee Haram, and Han Dojun. She had watched rehearsal recordings, mimicking their movements, their expressions. She spent her weekends at acting academies, every spare moment consumed by reading scripts, practicing lines. She had pushed herself, telling herself that every step, no matter how small, brought her closer to her dream.

And then she had seen it. She had found out, by chance, that Lee Haram was starring in an independent film, a film where an acquaintance of hers was working as a stylist. She had found a screening, snuck in using her sister’s ID, and watched.

And she had been…awestruck.

The difference between talent and hard work. She had felt it, viscerally, the insurmountable gap between them.

The distance hadn’t shrunk; it had grown. She hadn’t regressed; Lee Haram had simply… accelerated.

She finally understood. In just six months, Haram had surpassed her, reaching a level she could only dream of.

Talent was terrifying because it wasn’t static. Just when you thought you were catching up, they raised the bar, leaving you further behind than ever before.

Hansongi’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion, as she recounted her struggles. Haerin, however, saw through the facade, recognizing her student’s carefully constructed composure as a shield against her own turbulent emotions.

Hansongi smiled, a forced, brittle smile.

“I mean, I could just… ignore Lee Haram and Dojun… and believe in myself… But that’s…the hardest part.”
“You know that, yet…”
“Hee… I… I’ve been thinking… about what I can… realistically achieve.”

Her smile faltered.

“Graduate, go to college, take acting classes, audition endlessly… maybe, if I’m lucky… I’ll become an actor.”

Her voice lost its energy, her words a monotonous recitation of a bleak, predictable future.

“It’s… ordinary. My dream isn’t about… extraordinary possibilities anymore. It’s about… accepting the ordinary. It’s not even a dream anymore… It’s just… a plan.”

The loss of that dream, the acceptance of mediocrity… it was a fatal blow.

“Don’t give up. You have time.”

Haerin tried to encourage her. She saw potential in Hansongi, a spark of talent that shouldn’t be extinguished so easily.

“Dream big while you’re young. It gets harder later.”
“I don’t think I… have any big dreams left.”

Hansongi smiled sadly. Haerin bit her lip.

Not all adults were grown-ups. But hardship forced you to grow up, whether you wanted to or not.

And Hansongi, burdened by this harsh realization, had aged prematurely.

“…I need a drink,” Haerin muttered under her breath, sighing. She looked at Hansongi.

“This is about Lee Haram, isn’t it?”
“Hee… I can’t… deny it…”
“I understand. I didn’t want you to…end up like me.”
“I appreciate that.”

Haerin, unable to meet Hansongi’s gaze, looked away.

“So… what are you going to do now?”
“My grades are… not great… so I’ll focus on the college entrance exam. Maybe I can get into a decent university in Gyeonggi Province. And if that doesn’t work out… I’ve been taking care of myself, working on my acting skills, so… maybe I’ll find a rich husband and… become a housewife.”
(TL Note: Gyeonggi-do, officially Gyeonggi Province, surrounds Seoul (the capital of South Korea) forming the heart of the Seoul Capital Area. )

Hansongi smiled. The door creaked open, and Haerin’s face paled.

“H… Haram? What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you. And…”

Haram looked at Hansongi, her face blank. Haerin groaned inwardly.

“Is it true… that you’re quitting… because of me?”